


dreams of wood and paper

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternative Universe - Bookshop, F/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: "I'm looking for a special kind of book," he repeats, shrugging his shoulders as he tries to disappear even further into his coat. "You know. The Special Kind." As if repeating the same thing over and again made his query any clearer.- The magically cute bookshop AU you didn't know you needed. -
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	dreams of wood and paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gsparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/gifts).



> Written for gsparkle appreciation day 2020!  
> Out of love, I even refrained from using capitals in the title, which is the real gift here.  
> You know what a sacrifice that is for me. :-P  
> Hope you enjoy this. <3
> 
> Much love to my tireless beta CloudAtlas, who suggested writing about a magical bookshop in the first place, so in a way, it's a gift from both of us.

_"You see, bookshops are dreams built of wood and paper. They are time-travel and escape and knowledge and power. They are, simply put, the best of places."_

-Jen Campbell

~*~

The bookshop is ancient, that's the first thing Clint notices about it as he steps off the bus and into the icy autumn wind. Large flakes of colour are peeling off the frame surrounding a spacious, if dusty, display window. The bold letters across the front of this slice of storefront either needs a handful of new light bulbs, some serious rewiring or both; in any case the former illumination of "READING ROOM" now looks like "RE D ROOM".

There's the usual hodge podge of current best sellers, crime paperbacks, and romance novels on display though, and through the grimy glass Clint spies a pale arm snag a copy off the highest stack of books. The arm, he learns as soon as he ventures inside, belongs to an almost translucently pale woman with a shock of riotous red curls who throws him a smile that's so beautiful he immediately trips over his own feet, sending him sailing right into the table heaped with Ken Follett's collected works. Thank god the man only ever writes tomes of encyclopaedic length, so instead of causing a cascade of small volumes, Clint manages to avoid all but one of these bricks falling to the floor with a minimum amount of hectic flailing.

"-terribly convoluted plot but the lovely descriptions of the setting will definitely make you want to draw again. Here you go. Do come back and let me know what you think of it," the bookseller continues her conversation with the other customer. As if Clint hasn't just blundered into her shop with a mission to be the most obnoxious combination of tall, blond and clumsy.

"Looking forward to it. Thank you," the guy replies, slipping a paperback with a generic fantasy cover (boring stone archway with a view of a blue sailing ship) into a beaten-up backpack. He shoots her a toothpaste ad smile and oh god, what is this place? Is _everybody_ here ridiculously attractive?

Clint pretends to be absorbed in the blurb of Cecilia Ahern's latest work, but it's just another regurgitation of her usual saccharine drivel. The small bell rings out over the door again as the broad-shouldered guy takes his leave - presumably to stock up on art supplies.

"Hi." The voice is far too rich and low for someone who looks delicate enough to be blown away by a more enthusiastic sneeze, Clint thinks. He turns around and drops the Ahern back onto the pile.

Ok, so maybe he's been single for too long - it's after all the reason why he found his way to this particular bookshop in the first place - but the woman is breathtakingly beautiful. There's that thing about the brightness of her skin - because, let's be real here, whose complexion, despite the adjective being thrown around in abundance, is _actually_ white? It's as if somebody took an editing tool to her whole appearance and just messed around with colour saturation until she resembled the living embodiment of a birch in passionate love with a scarlet maple.

Clint would love to linger on the peculiar shape of her face, or the lush green of the ivy leaves that wind through her hair in a doomed attempt at reining in her curls, but the amused twinkle in her eye lets him know he's missed a question while he was gaping like a fish.

Classic Clint, as Kate would say.

"Hi!" he forces out in a strangely high pitch and picks up a book at random to occupy his hands. "I, uhm, I'm looking for a book."

"You've come to the right place. We've got so many, we even sell them." The woman smiles at him in a way that makes it clear it's not the first time she's made that joke, but he can't help chuckling to himself either way. "Are you searching for something in particular or just browsing? What you've got there is an exciting thriller and can be read on its own, but it's the eighth part of a series, so you may want to keep that in mind."

Clint looks down at the cover of his random grab, the words _Victim 2117_ plastered in harsh yellow across a stormy, most likely blood-thirsty Scandinavian sea. He rubs a nervous hand over his neck where his hair is in desperate need of a cut. Once he's aware of that, there's no stopping the helpful voice at the back of his mind pointing out that his parka is missing not one but two buttons and his chucks, which are way too thin for late October, have more holes than can be explained away as a fashion choice.

But she's still looking at him with kind eyes, and even though he doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell to get to know this strange woman any better, it somehow warms him to the core.

"Yes, specific, no, not a thriller," he replies, after what is probably too long a break. "I heard you carried... uhm... That there's _special_ books you have here," and he's blushing beet red, which is really embarrassing and makes him blush harder and oh god, somebody put him out of his misery. Avoiding her eyes, he returns the Scandi thriller back to the pile and aligns the spines with great attention to detail. Straightening more stacks would be a welcome distraction but curiously, all the books in this shop are arranged far more neatly than he's ever seen before.

" _Special_ books?" she queries and her inflection betrays nothing but polite interest.

A quick look around confirms that they are alone, and at her raised eyebrow, Clint digs his hands deep into his coat pockets. 

"Yeah," he mumbles, steeling himself. No way to get help if you can't ask for it. "I've been single forever, you know? Everytime I do go on a date it's an unmitigated disaster. It's like a _curse_ and I just - I need to know..." He trails off helplessly, searching for words on the ceiling. There's not a cobweb in sight. Man, this shop is tidy. "I get distracted very easily," he admits both to himself and the bookseller, whose lips have quirked into a smile that Clint's relieved to identify as sympathetic but not pitying.

"Don't worry, I may have just the thing for you," she says, leading him past the Children's section, where he ducks under the very low Very Hungry Caterpillar dangling from the ceiling in all its plush glory. In a corner titled _Lifestyle and Self Help_ he accepts the book she pulls from a shelf. " _Stop Doubting, Start Dating"_ he reads out loud, feeling the blush return ten-fold. " _A Shy Guy’s Guide To Building Confidence, Meeting Women_ \- Oh God. Sorry, no, sorry, but no, that- that's not what I meant!"

For the first time, her face falls and she appears a little less confident and -is that disappointment? "Forgive me, I didn't mean to presume-" she apologizes, stretching to reach the highest shelf. Her hair falls back as she strains upwards which means that Clint, who is still so flustered he tries not to look at her straight-on, catches a brief glimpse of her ear which is... surprisingly pointy.

"Here you go," she says, holding out a different book and pulling the hem of her mossy-green cardigan back down over her briefly exposed midriff.

Clint is still so surprised about the ear thing, he's left speechlessly holding _Boyfriend 101: A Gay Guy's Guide to Dating, Romance, and Finding True Love_.

"That... wasn't what I had in mind either," he says after a moment. His voice is curiously weak even to himself and eye-contact is still not coming easily when he adds, "I _am_ attracted to-" He cuts himself off, but the unspoken _you_ rings out in his hesitation with all the subtlety of a town crier.

"Oh." The faintest tinge of colour rises to her cheeks and Clint can't ever come back here; he's fallen in love and blown all his chances almost simultaneously. This might be a new record even for him.

"I'm looking for a _special_ kind of book," he repeats, shrugging his shoulders as he tries to disappear even further into his coat. "You know. The Special Kind." As if repeating the same thing over and again made his query any clearer.

The woman tilts her head inquiringly. "We have a selection of erotica in the back, if that-"

"No!" and by now Clint really does want the ground to swallow him. "No, no, oh man, that's not - this is terrible, I'm sorry, I'm so very-" He interrupts himself, takes a steadying breath and briefly squeezes his eyes shut. It's unlikely he can embarrass himself any more than he already has.

"See, it's like this: just as I've effectively proven, I am the worst when it comes to talking to women. I get flustered, I'm clumsy, I- I don't know. I get distracted. You're going to laugh at me, but you know, fuck it. Thing is, I think I may be actually, genuinely _cursed_."

The bookseller isn't laughing yet so, for something to do, Clint dares to remove a hand from the depth of his pockets to nervously trace the intricate leaf pattern on a poster advertising a book on norse mythology.

"My ex-girlfriend," he says in a low voice."I was a dick to her, if I'm honest. We both knew the relationship had run its course, but I was too chicken to end it. To put it bluntly, I cheated to give her a reason to break up with me. You don't have any reason to believe me, but I am really not That Guy, usually. But yeah, I was 19 and a cowardly asshole and she was... badass and, as I found out too late, probably a witch."

Clint waits for the derogatory snort of laughter, for the look of disbelief or maybe panic in the face of a mad man.

He gets neither.

Instead, he finds himself looking at sympathetic understanding. "Do you regret what you did?" she asks softly.

Clint's laugh is bitter and maybe a little too loud, but one of the comforting things about walls filled with books is how they swallow noise, leaving you in a perpetual space of collected calm.

"I've regretted it since before I even went through with it," he admits, looking anywhere but at this strange person who should be treating him like a mental case but who for some unfathomable reason seems to believe him.

"What made you think I'd be able to help you?" she asks after a moment's contemplation.

"My friend America recommended you," he replies and the strange tension that crept into their conversation evaporates when the woman breaks into a fond smile. " _Amerika_!" she exclaims, and it sounds different from her lips, "Why didn't you say so! Wait just one second."

Clint looks on in dumbfounded surprise as she dashes back to the front of the shop, collects a comically large set of keys and despite it being the middle of the day locks the front door, flipping the dangling sign to _Closed._

"Come," she invites him, leading the way up a few steps to a doorway in the very back, halfway hidden by a large rack filled with the covers of maps, their curling edges testament to the omnipresence of _Google_.

Clint has to duck again as he pushes a heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtain aside, following the short woman into the unexpected warmth of the shop's inner sanctum. Here, in a small but functional kitchen, a spotless window overlooks drab greyness, its light strangely soothing and its sill filled to the brim with lush potted plants. Dried herbs hang in be-ribboned bunches from a bar near the ceiling and an antique brass samovar steams gently on a nearby cupboard.

"Please," the bookseller says, indicating a set of brass hooks on the wall with a tilt of her chin, "take your coat off and have a seat."

Silently, Clint hangs his ratty parka next to a worn but well-kept blackberry-coloured woollen coat. Pushing back one of the mismatched chairs, he notices that this descriptor - _worn, but well-kept_ \- pretty much applies to every item he sees in this room. There's an air of something inhabited and private about the room - something homely and warm - and Clint can't help but feel both comforted and out of place.

"I'm sorry," his host says, tearing him from his musings. "I never even asked your name." She sets a steaming tea cup on the table in front of him.

"Clint," he introduces himself, busying his hands by pulling the saucer closer and slowly rotating the cup to align the hand-painted pattern. The soft hissing noise of porcelain against the abraded pastiche of ornate flowers brings back memories of his grandmother, of a scratchy rug against his cheek as he lay on the floor, drowsy with the safe comfort of watching her knit tirelessly.

"Nice to meet you, Clint. I'm Natasha."

When he looks up to meet her eyes, he can tell she noticed him drift off, and for the first time, it doesn't feel like something he should be embarrassed about. 

"What is this place?" he asks quietly, because something is off about the lack of noises from the outside world, about the sense of safety and belonging he feels in a place he's never set foot in before.

"Just the backroom to a bookshop," she replies evenly.

"No, it's not."

"You are very observant," Natasha smiles, brushing her hair behind her ear and-

Clint takes a sharp breath.

Confirming his first impression, he takes in Natasha's, not just slightly but _very definitely_ , pointy ear.

"You-" He struggles for words and this time, it's her who seems worried and unsure. "You're beautiful!" Clint blurts, immediately grimacing at his own idiocy. If she wasn't already aware that he was the world champion of putting his foot in his mouth, she’d know it now.

Her laughter takes him by surprise. Truth be told, due to her elfin complexion he'd expected the soft tinkle of a bubbling brook or other such romantic notions, but her laugh sounds rough and smoky around the edges; like the business end of a row of shots in a bar of ill reputation. It's a strangely alluring combination.

"Yes, I can see you need help," she says, and there's no malice in it. "Show me your palms."

Clint obliges, placing both hands next to his cup on the table. Natasha leans over and studies them, keeping a respectful distance and making non-committal noises every so often as she follows the lines and creases with her eyes. After thorough consideration, she nods to herself.

"The good news is: you were right. You've been cursed." She says it so matter-of-fact, Clint just nods mutely, his hands still on the table. "The bad news is: I'm not entirely sure yet how to break it."

"I understand," Clint lies, when it occurs to him that she may be waiting for him to say something in return.

"You should drink your tea," Natasha decides, picking up her own cup. "Drink as much as you can in one go, leaving the leaves. Then swill the rest three times counter-clockwise, like this." 

She demonstrates, then covers the cup with the saucer and with practised ease, turns it upside down. Placing it carefully back on the table, she lets it sit like this, making an impatient _now you do it_ gesture with her hand.

Hopelessly out of his depth, Clint takes a long swig of tea. It's hot, both in temperature and with a tang of ginger, cinnamon and black pepper that makes his entire mouth tingle when he forces it down. As instructed, he swills the remaining liquid, covers the delicate china with the saucer and flips it upside down. Reddish-brown tea swishes through the crack between the two pieces, slops over the side and spills over the battered table top.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry-" he starts, but Natasha waves him off, impatiently motioning for him to put down the saucer. As soon as his hands have withdrawn, she lifts the cup, eyeing the soggy leaves with intense scrutiny.

Clint looks at them more closely. To him they form a clear image of... soggy tea leaves.

"Huh," he says, unsure of what he expected, but Natasha holds up a single silencing finger and he swallows down his questions. Bent over the saucer this way, she appears even more otherworldly than before.

Clint waits. What else can he do?

"This is interesting," Natasha wonders out loud after a last long look at the mess that could be a dancer or a spider for all Clint knows.

"It is?" Clint watches as she turns and reaches into the cupboard to collect a small lidded pot that looks as though a person with even less artistic abilities than Clint had made the misguided decision to take a pottery class. Without warning she whips off the lid and shoves the pot right under Clint's nose.

"What does that smell like to you?"

Clint takes an aborted whiff before recoiling. "Jesus! That's intense."

"Yes, but what does it smell like?" Natasha's wide-eyed stare is strangely urgent and inquisitive and, while every passing minute is resetting the bar for Clint's Craziest Experience Ever, there's a part of him that feels strangely right about all of these shenanigans, too.

Instead of sticking his nose in it, he tentatively moves the flat of his hand over the open pot and wafts the scent towards his nose, in an approximation of how a chemistry teacher has shown him half a lifetime ago.

"It's like... sawdust. Horses. Blood. Applause?"

Natasha doesn't question how something can smell like applause, she just takes it in stride, nodding as if he did something both correct and mildly confusing. She's closing the pot when he asks, "Was that the right answer? Did I pass your test?"

"It's not that kind of test," Natasha smiles, tucking an escaped lock back behind her pointy ear.

"What does it smell like to you?" Clint asks because, while he can't pinpoint why, suddenly it matters to him. She considers him for a moment.Then, as if making a decision, she cracks the lid once more and breathes in. There’s a strange look in her eyes when she replies.

"Floor polish. Silk over leather. Blood and applause." She gives him an impish look that wakes a longing pull in his chest the likes of which he hasn't felt in years.

"What do I do about my curse?" he asks hoarsely, because he wants to see her again, wants to be rid of this malicious enchantment now more than ever.

"You were cursed as punishment. Only if you've reformed and find someone to truly fall in love with you despite the boundaries the curse has put on you, can it be broken."

When she looks him over this time, Clint doesn't think of his shaggy hair; he doesn't think of lost buttons and holes in his shoes. Under her scrutiny, all he thinks about is how the fire rekindled inside him must be bright enough to shine through his very skin.

Natasha's lips part in a gasp of surprise. "Could it be...?" she whispers to herself before lifting the cup from her own saucer. Clint doesn't expect to see anything worthwhile in the leaves and, from his perspective, it indeed only looks like an arrow pointed at Natasha.

"So you’re saying I can't find a way for someone to fall in love with me until I've found someone to fall in love with me?" Clint asks, unable to disguise his disappointment.

"A bit like that," Natasha says, giving her leaves a last look before turning a full smile on him. "Only one way to find out though. What are you doing Friday night?"


End file.
